Sentiment Damns Him
by theheartofadetective
Summary: What she does not realize is what he would do for her. He will spill blood; he will spill his own if it comes down to it. No one deserves it more than Molly; she risks everything she works hard for without even a second thought, for the benefit of a former drug-addict who attracts criminal masterminds.


Sentiment damns him. Every moment he spends with Molly inside her small flat, he tries to deny the inevitable. He is in love with Molly a lot longer than he realizes, and slowly he lets his mind admit the truth.

She gives him space to think, to plan. She kills him like he asks (Molly will always grant him what he needs, anything to protect him, because that's who she is) and expects nothing in return. There is nothing that she will not do for him.

What she does not realize is what _he _would do for _her._ He will spill blood; he will spill his own if it comes down to it. No one deserves it more than Molly; she risks everything she works hard for without even a second thought, for the benefit of a former drug-addict who attracts criminal masterminds.

She knows he is brilliant, and knows that when he figures out a way to come back, when he eliminates every threat, he will save lives, as he does all along. He claims it's to satiate boredom, but with intelligence like his, he can be on any side he wants; he _chooses_ to help others, and Molly will always see it like that.

She sees him differently, she understands without words. She loves an emotional cripple, and it does not bother her because she will not ask him to change; loves him for the way he is.

He does not deserve her, he knows that much. But he wants to cut out his tongue when he finally tells her he loves her; when he gives her words she deserves to hear.

The thing that makes him want to cut out his tongue is not the phrase that brings moisture to her eyes. No, it is that it comes out just before he leaves for two years, with no promise of him coming back alive, of coming back at all. She has to hold on to his words, and wait (he does not expect that of her, but knows she will anyway). Her loyalty is outstanding, but waiting an eternity would be worth it to her.

Maybe some will tell her she is pathetic, that it will come back to bite her, but Molly accepts the person that she is. She is not afraid anymore; not about the way she feels. He makes her more confident when those three words fall from his lips.

And it has been two years – to be precise, two years, three months, and five days. The days get harder and harder to count as time goes on. He does things he never expects himself to do, but it is all out of necessity.

Before things spiral into chaos with reporters, and those he lies to, he needs to see her. The streets of London are dark and cold, and he wishes to sleep. But the need to see her is stronger. He can sleep in her flat after he sees her.

He thinks about how he wants to sleep in his own bed, one that he abandons so long ago, but the line between Baker Street being home and Molly being his home blur.

She wins.

She will every time if he admits it.

He throws his Belstaff quickly onto the coat rack, not caring if his trademark item falls to the floor or stays on the peg. It does not matter, not right now.

He does not remember the quick walk from her front door to her bedroom door, but when he is in there, he can physically feel himself relax.

Here she is, just like he left her what seems like so long ago. Looking peaceful as her chest delicately rises and falls. He takes two long, quiet strides to her side of the bed, sitting down on the edge.

Sherlock leans in, pushing a loose lock of hair away from her face. "Molly…" he whispers.

She wakes lightly, and rubs at her eyes before she opens them. A small groan of fatigue comes from her throat, and it takes her a minute to register this. For a moment, she thinks she is back two years ago when it was normal to wake up to Sherlock in her flat. But then she remembers how long its been, and she is alert and awake.

She sits up as quickly as she can manage, her hand against the back of his neck as she pulls him towards her. Their lips meet and her arms wrap around his neck when his hands instinctively grip her waist and pull her into his lap.

"I love you," she whispers between kisses, barely able to get the words out as he does not leave room for that. Warm moisture falls from her lips, but she doesn't care; she just wants him. "I love you, I love you, Sherlock," she whispers over and over because this is the first time she is able to tell him.

More than anything she wants to tell him before he leaves, after he tells her his feelings, but he knows he does not want her to say it. Not yet. It is already difficult for him to leave when he does, and if she says it, he may just stay. So not only does she wait for him for over two years, but waits to tell him words she wants so desperately to confess from the moment she meets him.

Their hands move everywhere, anywhere, snaking under clothing to feel warm skin, to relish in the contact. She nips at his lower lip as they kiss each other frantically, tiny mewls escaping Molly's mouth as their hips press together.

Clothes find their way to the floor as Molly presses her hands lightly against Sherlock's chest, making him lay on his back. She leans in to meet their mouths again, her hand wrapped around his cock, moving her hand in long strokes as heavy headed breaths come from his mouth.

She continues her motions, her hand increasing in pressure as she can hear uncontrollable groans release from his throat. He doesn't know where he found the strength his hand to rest upon hers, to stop her. He does not want this to end yet, he wants to be inside her, and he wants to throw her over the edge.

He sits up; Molly still perched in his lap. He is positioned at her entrance, the tip of his prick rubbing against her opening and she lets out a whine of impatience release. He holds her hips tightly, not letting her sink down onto him yet.

She wants him, that is all she has ever wanted; only Sherlock. He teases her to a point where she can't take it anymore. He kisses and sucks at her neck, grinding against her, but still not entering her.

"Sherlock," she begs as she closes her eyes, her nose nuzzling against his cheek. He can hear her exasperated pants, the desperate want in her voice. "Sherlock, please."

And he does not hesitate second longer, because for once Molly needs him. She helps through so much, does everything he asks for nothing in return. But she loves him, and he grants her words that she has always wanted to hear. But this means more than just the physical motions, she wants him; like she has wants no other person. His grip tightens on her waist and he lowers her down onto him, filling her completely. She rocks against him, riding him and rolling her hips quickly.

Sherlock's mouth wanders as she moves down on top of him. He uses his lips and tongue against her mouth, her collarbone, her breasts, worshipping her body because he will always feel she deserves more than him. But he's selfish, and he won't give her up.

It is then that he flips them over, pushing her onto her back, burying himself deep within her, which only makes her louder, makes her sound even more pleased as her hands grip his shoulders tightly, her nails digging in before they begin to wander around his body; in any place she can touch him. She doesn't want any of his perfect, porcelain skin untouched. She will discover every inch of it.

If he knew how perfectly she fit with him before, if he knew how satisfying it would be to hear her soft moans and whines, caused by him, he would have given into sentiment a long time ago. It's in this moment that he is not as afraid as he used to be; that no matter what, he will find room to love Molly, and he can't go back now. She damns him, but it's so _pleasing_, so rewarding.

"Open your eyes," he groans as he begins to pump into her faster, their rhythms matching as Molly's moans become louder.

They have spent so much time not being able to see each other, not able to truly _look_, and the last thing he wants is his eyes off Molly. Her eyes open and he presses his forehead to hers, their lips touching every time she is completely filled, their lungs refurbishing each other's breath.

With one arm wrapped around her waist, Sherlock reaches the other between them and finds her sensitive nub. Her hand tightens in his curls as the other tries to keep grip on the sheets. He swears if she grips them any tighter, she will rip them. He lets two fingers rub against her clit, and knows this won't last any longer. He senses her final build up and catches her lips again as he claims her crying orgasm into his throat, feeling her clench tightly around him.

This pushes him to a peak, her name growled from his lips as she continues to take his bottom lip between her teeth. They don't move away from each other as they move through their afterglow. Hands wandering to places inaccessible in their previous position, and it takes a few minutes before their hearts calm and they don't rush desperately, realizing they have all the time in the world now that Sherlock is home.

"You can't leave now," she tells him when she finally catches her breath, her lips grazing along his jaw as he lets his fingertips run through her hair. "Now that you're back, you can't disappear somewhere again."

"I never would have left had I the choice," he tells her. He would pull her tighter against his chest if there was any space left between them.

"I love you," she confesses again, like it's the first time she says it. Although her eyes are hooded in exhaustion, she is smiling and happy, and fighting off sleep.

"I love you too," he says, knowing that not only has this situation with Jim Moriarty has changed his life and made him see differently, but also the girl in front of him, wrapped in his arms, willing to risk the world for him.

* * *

**A/N: Honestly, I always love when I write things that are intensely emotional. Hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading!**


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